Party in Quarantine
by Mandelene
Summary: It's finally summer, but just when Dr. Kirkland thinks he's going to be able to take a much-needed vacation, he finds himself in charge of nursing his family back to health after a virus sweeps through the household. Fortunately, not all hope is lost, and maybe there's a way to salvage both his sanity and the health of his loved ones. (FACE)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I know I still need to finish "I Spy a Family Reunion," but after two weeks of madness at work, I needed to write some pure fluff, and you guys are always requesting more medical AUs from me, so here you go! It'll be therapeutic for both of us, haha. This is technically a sequel to "Rockin' Around the ICU," but you don't need to read that story to understand this one, so feel free to just dive into it. Also, please leave a review if you can because they make it easier to find the motivation to keep typing! Enjoy!

P.S. Happy Father's Day!

* * *

It's the first day of summer.

They've all been waiting for this—the blue skies, balmy sunshine, carnivals, the beach, and warm nights chatting on the porch until they lose track of time. It's been almost an entire year since they've had a real break, and tomorrow, Arthur will finally be able to make use of the vacation days that he's been stacking up for a while. For three whole weeks, he won't have to be bothered with the madness of the hospital. He can just live out his regular life with the boys and Francis, and not think about anything medical related in the near future.

The thought of having time to do whatever he pleases seems like a farfetched fantasy. He can read all of the books he's been meaning to read. He can sit down and watch a movie or just waste away the day by sitting on a lawn chair in the sunshine. It's all too good to be true. In a few hours, he'll be a free man, and someone else will have the responsibility of dealing with his patients.

It's a slow workday, and when sitting at the computer to finish his charting becomes too dull to bear, he decides to take an early lunch break. He could use some iced tea and a salad.

He checks his watch, realizes he has quite a bit of time before he has to do his next rounds, and heads for the elevators, feeling lighter on his feet than he has in a while. Lately, he's felt horribly guilty for not being home enough. Is he risking becoming an absent parent? Has he put his career before his family? Will he wake up one day to find his children have rebelled and are hanging out with the wrong crowd at school? No, he won't allow that. The twins are only nine years old. He has time to change his ways, surely.

He steps out into the lobby of the hospital, and just as he's pulling the door open to leave, someone slams into him from behind and practically sends him hurtling toward the concrete. He jumps, startled, and spins around to see who the culprit is, and to his chagrin, it's the infamous pediatrician from the ICU, Dr. Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Beilschmidt was voted "most charismatic physician" by the hospital earlier this year—a title he flaunts proudly, and while the man is unhinged, if Arthur were to collapse right here and now, there's no other doctor in this entire hospital that he'd trust more with his life than with him.

"Whoa! Sorry, Kirkland. I'm just in a rush to get out of here before some kind of calamity breaks out, and I'm forced to go back onto the unit," Gilbert explains, motioning for Arthur to hurry up and keep walking. "I actually got a lunch break today. Can you believe it? I can't remember when I took my last lunch break."

Arthur straightens out his white coat and frowns as he finally makes it outside in one, whole piece. "Congratulations."

Gilbert grins obnoxiously, and as they begin to stroll up the block together, he suddenly stops in the center of the sidewalk, cups his hands around the corners of his mouth, and declares loudly, "HEY, EVERYONE! GUESS WHAT? I'M GETTING LUNCH! I HAVE A LUNCH BREAK! AN ACTUAL BREAK DURING WHICH I GET TO GO OUT AND EAT."

"Would you please stop screaming like a banshee? I'd like to enjoy my lunch break as well, if you don't mind."

Gilbert chuckles and lets out a long sigh. "Sorry, I had to get that out of my system. It's not good to bottle things up, you know? So, where are you off to?"

"Away from you," Arthur huffs.

"Aww, but I haven't seen you in over a week! You've been holed up in med-surg for a while now. How're the kiddos doing?"

"I haven't been there of my own volition… The boys are fine. They just finished the school term, and Francis has been supervising them for the past few days. We're still trying to decide where to go for the summer."

Gilbert nods enthusiastically and pulls a lollipop out of his white coat to snack on—candy that should be reserved for the children he treats. "That's good. You're starting your vacation this week, too? I just convinced my brother, Ludwig, to go fishing with me this weekend. Neither of us knows how to fish, but we'll figure it out as we go along... Oooh, let's stop at this cafe—they've got the best iced coffee."

Begrudgingly, Arthur goes along with him. As irritating as Gilbert can be, he has proven to be a good friend time and time again. Thus, they get out of the searing heat and into the cold air-conditioned cafe. The place is fairly busy, but the line to the register moves quickly, and so Arthur doesn't mind the short wait. He lets Gilbert go first to have more time to peruse the menu, and soon enough, they're able to take up an empty table and eat, which is remarkably pleasant compared to how they usually have their meals in the hospital's lounge or in between rounds.

Suddenly, he gets a call from Francis, and he briefly excuses himself before picking up. His husband usually calls him around this time of day, so there's nothing inherently surprising about the event, but what is surprising is how anxious Francis sounds when he greets him.

"Arthur?"

"Yes? Is everything all right?"

"It's _Mathieu_ —he has a sore throat, is running a hundred-degree fever, and has been crying for the past hour."

Arthur sighs, looks down sadly at his half-eaten lunch and realizes what this new development means—they won't be going on vacation anytime soon. While he'll be able to stop playing doctor at the hospital, he won't be able to have the same luxury when he gets home tonight. "It started this morning?"

" _Oui_."

"Put a cold compress on his forehead and move Alfred into the guestroom. Take Matthew's temperature again in exactly an hour. If it's a hundred and one or higher, get a medicine cup from the kitchen drawer and give him ten milliliters of the children's ibuprofen that's in the bathroom."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Call me if he starts showing any new symptoms."

"Understood. _Merci_ , _mon amour_. I'll give Matthew a kiss on your behalf."

"And that's precisely why you always catch his illnesses as well," Arthur huffs.

"How else am I supposed to comfort him in his time of need? He needs love," Francis argues, defensive.

"I won't be nursing you back to health if you're reckless. You can comfort him without putting yourself at risk of contagion. Wash your hands frequently and keep the boys apart for now."

"Okay. I'll talk to you soon, _mon cher_. Don't overwork yourself too much today."

"I won't make any promises."

He ends the call, puts his cellphone down on the table, and makes a feeble attempt at getting through the rest of his salad, even though his appetite has now been lost due to worry.

"Matthew's sick?" Gilbert asks, also betraying some concern.

"It seems so."

"Aww, poor guy. Tell him I hope he feels better soon. What's he sick with?"

"That's yet to be determined. According to Francis, he has a sore throat and a fever," Arthur explains, pursing his lips.

"Strep?"

"Perhaps. It seems to have come on suddenly. I'll get a throat culture from him when I get home."

Gilbert pouts in sympathy and says, "Summer sicknesses are the worst. At least in the winter, it's expected, and having to stay inside isn't as miserable. If it turns out to be strep, prepare for the rest of the family to get it, too."

"Yes, I have a feeling this isn't going to be a simple cold."

"I don't envy you," Gilbert murmurs, chugging down the rest of his iced coffee and letting his gaze fall to his watch. "I've gotta start heading back. Text me later and let me know if your kiddo is doing any better, and I probably don't have to tell you this, but you'd better get on your hands and knees and start praying Alfred doesn't get sick. With his diabetes, you know what a pain in the ass that would be."

Arthur groans at the idea. "I was hoping you wouldn't state the worst case scenario aloud. I'm going to try my best to prevent it, but there's very little I can do when they share a room. It may already be too late."

"Have fun with that, then."

Arthur chuckles darkly and rubs his temples. "Enjoy your fishing trip."

"Thanks! Will do! Good luck!"

Luck? He's never had much of that, which means he's likely going to find himself in a bit of trouble.

* * *

It's obvious there's something amiss because when Arthur walks through the front door around eight o'clock in the evening, it's completely silent in the house. The boys aren't playing, Francis isn't singing to himself in the kitchen, and the TV in the living room isn't on—all signs that this isn't a normal night.

Arthur takes off his shoes, puts his white coat in the hamper, and brings his bag filled with medical supplies upstairs with him. The door to the boys' bedroom is closed, and before he can extend a hand to push it open, Alfred comes running over to him from the other end of the hall (Francis seems to have followed his instructions about keeping him in a separate room).

"Dad! I missed you!"

He manages a smile for Alfred and gives him a small squeeze. "I've missed you, too. I hear your brother isn't feeling well."

"Yeah, Mattie's been crying all day, and I wanted to play a game with him, but Papa said I'm not allowed to go into our room for now until he's all better," Alfred says with a deep frown. "Is he gonna be okay? He looked really bad earlier. Can you fix him?"

Arthur ruffles Alfred's hair and nods. "I'm sure he'll be all right soon enough. Try to give him some space for now."

"Okay," Alfred replies, even though he looks quite disappointed that he won't have a playmate for a little while. "I'm gonna go brush my teeth."

"All right, I'll be over in a bit to check your blood sugar."

"Ughh... Do you have to?"

"You know I do."

And with that, Alfred shuffles into the bathroom and leaves Arthur to go back to the task at hand. Quietly, Arthur pushes open the door to the boys' bedroom and finds Francis dabbing a cool washcloth against a distraught Matthew's cheeks and forehead, trying to bring his temperature down while the boy sniffles and sobs.

"How is my favorite patient doing?" Arthur asks softly as he approaches the bed and frowns at how under the weather Matthew appears to be. His face is cherry red both from the fever and from crying, he's wracked with chills, and his nose is running profusely. "Not too well, I see."

"I gave him the medicine you told me to give him," Francis anxiously informs him, wiping away the tears on Matthew's face with the washcloth.

Arthur takes a seat on the edge of the bed, rubs one of Matthew's legs soothingly through the covers, and says, "All right, let's have a look... Don't cry, poppet, you're just going to give yourself a headache. Everything will be okay."

He unzips his bag and takes out his stethoscope and otoscope. Generally, Matthew has always been rather cooperative when it comes to being examined, but it seems the fever has made him particularly fussy today because when Arthur tries to put his stethoscope on the boy's chest, he kicks out his legs in protest and whimpers, not wanting to be touched.

"No!" Matthew shouts despite having a sore throat, and Arthur discovers this is going to be more difficult than he expected.

" _Mathieu_ , let your father help," Francis lightly chides him.

It's at moments like these that Arthur wishes he had more experience in pediatrics than he does. Someone like Gilbert can get a child to do just about anything for him, no matter how sick they are, and Arthur has always been in awe of him in that regard. Since he doesn't have that natural knack for winning over the hearts and minds of even his own children, it often takes him a bit more trial and error to get the same results.

He pets Matthew's arm fondly, tells him he has nothing to be afraid of, and pulls back the covers and the blanket the boy has been swaddled in—he's warm enough as is. One thing he does know about nervous patients of all ages is to start the examination from the extremities and work his way up. He needs to win Matthew's trust first.

With that in mind, he takes hold of Matthew's wrist and checks his pulse—it's a little elevated, which is to be expected. He makes a note of the boy's clammy hands, checks his arms for any signs of a rash, and then brings his hands up to his neck to feel his throat and his lymph nodes. He can feel quite a bit of swelling, and he massages the area for a moment, causing Matthew to sink against his touch and sigh with relief. While he's at it, he brings his hand up to feel the boy's forehead and massages his temples as well, and that seems to be the last bit of convincing Matthew needs to cooperate fully with whatever Arthur wants to do.

Taking advantage of the opening before Matthew can change his mind, Arthur puts a thermometer under his tongue and places his stethoscope on his chest successfully this time and without protest. His lungs sound clear, so that's good.

He sets the stethoscope aside and picks up his otoscope again. While Matthew is resignedly leaning back against his pillows, Arthur checks each of his ears in turn—no signs of infection.

The thermometer beeps in quick succession rather than just once, signaling a high reading. He pulls it out of Matthew's mouth and glowers at the number he sees—100.8. It explains the grouchiness, but it's not high enough to cause real alarm. "All right, love. Almost done. Just open your mouth and say 'ahh' for me."

Matthew sniffles and squeaks out a hoarse sounding 'ahh' in between his sobbing as Arthur shines the light from his otoscope on his tonsils.

It's not strep—doesn't look like it, anyway—but he wants to get a throat culture to rule it out for sure because of the fever. He lets Matthew close his mouth as he searches for a tongue depressor, a cotton swab, and a disposable strep test kit.

"Hurts…" Matthew whispers.

"What hurts, poppet?"

"E-Everything."

Arthur clicks his tongue. "I'm sorry, love. We'll get to the bottom of this."

He's going to lose Matthew's trust as soon as he swabs his throat, but there isn't another alternative. He tells him to open his mouth again, and Francis helps hold him still while he gets the culture. It takes no more than three seconds, but Matthew gags as soon as the cotton swab is taken out of his mouth and coughs before bursting into a fresh waterfall of tears.

"All done, love. Shhh, shhh," Arthur says desperately as he sticks the swab into the test kit that he sets up on the nightstand. "It's okay now."

Francis cleans up Matthew's tearstained cheeks and dribbling nose with some tissues, and Arthur scowls at the test strip on the nightstand, hoping against all odds that this is something as common and easily treatable as strep.

No such luck. No matter how long he glares at the strip, it stays negative.

"So?" Francis asks, one arm wrapped around Matthew's shoulders as he coddles him. "Do you know what he has?"

"No, I don't," Arthur sighs, exasperated, "but I have a feeling it's an enterovirus—they're common during this time of year."

"And how do you cure that?"

"You don't. You just provide symptomatic relief and let it run its course."

Francis doesn't seem happy with that answer, and Arthur doesn't blame him. "How long is it going to last?"

"Anywhere from three to ten days. It's essentially similar to the flu."

"Is it contagious?"

"Yes. It's normally worse in children, but adults can get it as well."

Francis coos sympathetically at Matthew and kisses his forehead, something Arthur doesn't approve of in the least. "My poor _chou_. Papa will be here to take care of you, don't you worry."

"He needs his rest. I'll bring up a spray for his throat, some juice, and more tissues."

His words seem to go in one ear and out the other because Francis doesn't even acknowledge the statement—he's too busy fluffing Matthew's pillows and acting as though the boy is on his deathbed.

Arthur leaves the bedroom and shakes his head with a little laugh at his husband's dramatic fretting. Matthew will be back to normal in a few days as long as they keep him comfortable and well-hydrated, but Francis has a habit of being a mother hen in regard to anything involving Matthew. He supposes the extra smothering won't do the child any harm, so he may as well let it be.

His phone buzzes in his pocket a moment later—a text message from Gilbert.

" _What's up with the kiddo?"_

Arthur types back, " _Negative for strep. Reckon it's enterovirus."_

" _Blegh. Watch for dehydration and respiratory distress."_

" _I know."_

" _Figured you did. Stay strong._ "

" _Easier said than done."_

* * *

White sand, a sea green ocean, sunglasses perched on his nose—that's what Arthur dreams about that night when he goes to bed with Francis after making sure Matthew is sound asleep. What he wouldn't give for a nice cruise to the Caribbean right about now. It'd be absolutely lovely, and as his mind continues to imagine all of the wonderful possibilities, he suddenly gets wrenched out of his doze when he feels the bed dip and sway over and over again.

He peels his eyes open and finds Francis fitfully tossing and turning underneath the tangle of sheets while the air conditioning hums in the background. Groggily, he reaches out a hand to touch his husband's back, only to realize the back of the man's t-shirt is covered in sweat.

"Francis," he calls to him, trying to rouse him. "Francis, wake up."

But Francis still doesn't stop thrashing. Carefully, Arthur lets his hand drift to his forehead, and he isn't surprised to discover he's warm—not hot, just a little fevered. This is what he gets for cozying up to Matthew.

Now he has two patients to monitor, and Arthur hopes the steel-strong immune system he has developed from years of working in healthcare will prevent him from catching this virus as well.

He decides to let Francis sleep because there's nothing else he can do at the moment to help. He is, however, going to be in for an unpleasant surprise in the morning when he wakes up to an aching throat and clogged nose.

"Foolish frog…" Arthur mumbles to himself as he gets himself settled to go back to sleep. He lets his eyes slip closed, takes a deep breath, and waits for his mind to go back to his delightful dream.

"Dad!" a voice echoes from the hallway a second later.

That's Alfred—he's certain. What would the boy want at three o'clock in the morning when—?

His eyes snap open and he groans to himself. Please, oh, please, let it not be what he thinks it is.

He drags himself out of bed, fumbles around for his slippers, and quietly shuffles into the hallway, gently shutting the bedroom door behind him so as not to wake Francis. When he turns around, he comes face-to-face with two wide, blue eyes that are pooling with tears.

"What's wrong, my boy?"

Alfred hiccups and coughs before saying, "My throat feels scratchy and my head hurts real bad."

Damn, Arthur thinks to himself. He's beyond frustrated, although he should've known he wouldn't be able to contain this illness. "Let's get you back to bed and take your temperature."

There's no point in keeping Alfred in the guest bedroom now that he's ill as well, and so he brings him back into his regular bed across from Matthew and tries to be as silent as possible. He lets Alfred get under his blanket but urges him not to cover himself up with anything else lest he worsens his fever. He sterilizes the thermometer he's been using on Matthew by washing it with soap and water and then rubs it down with an alcohol wipe before slipping it under Alfred's tongue.

The thermometer beeps and screeches just as it did earlier with Matthew, indicating an above normal temperature.

"Is it bad?" Alfred asks with sparkling eyes.

"99.8," Arthur reads before offering Alfred a consoling smile. "That's only a small fever. It's okay for now. Open your mouth for a moment."

"Why?"

"Just trust me," Arthur says cryptically. He discreetly reaches out to take the throat spray off of the nightstand—the same one he used on Matthew earlier—unscrews the cap, and pumps it twice into Alfred's mouth.

Alfred makes a sour face, quickly closes his mouth, and swallows hard. "Gross!"

"It'll help. It's strawberry flavored."

"Didn't taste like strawberries," Alfred complains quietly, mindful of his sleeping twin.

"It should get rid of the pain, so you'll have an easier time falling asleep. Try to rest, and if you feel worse or need anything else during the night, come and wake me, okay?"

"Okay. Goodnight, Dad..."

"Goodnight, love." Arthur whispers back, squeezing the boy's shoulder affectionately before rising and leaving the room.

Well, it looks like he has an entire family to look after now. In the morning, he's going to have three crabby patients on his hands, and that'll mean he'll have to check their temperatures every hour, on the hour, get everyone fed, make sure they're all supplied with water, juice, tissues, pillows, and blankets, keep them entertained, and somehow manage to prevent himself from becoming rundown or contracting the virus as well.

So much for that cruise to the Caribbean.


	2. Chapter 2

Three plates of toast—lightly buttered and coated with a bit of strawberry jam—three sliced bananas, chamomile tea for Francis with extra honey, milk for Alfred, and juice for Matthew… Is that everything?

Arthur sighs and sits down to finish the rest of his own breakfast, which consists of a bagel with cream cheese and a cup of extra-strong black tea. It's unnerving to be eating alone in the kitchen. On a day like this, the boys should be playing tag around the table until they get scolded by either himself or Francis. Matthew should be requesting pancakes with maple syrup, and Alfred should be pleading his case as to why chocolate milk should be considered a breakfast food.

Last time Arthur peeked into the bedrooms, everyone was still sleeping, and while he doesn't want to wake anyone, it's nearing ten o'clock in the morning, and they really should have something to eat. They can sleep in afterward.

And it sure is a great day for sleeping in. There's a pounding rain knocking against the windows that casts a gloomy aura over the house, and Arthur himself is feeling a little lethargic and depressed as a result.

He checks his watch and decides it's time to start bringing up the trays of food to his ailing family. It'd probably be best to start with the boys first and let Francis doze for as long as possible (his husband can be incredibly irritating and needy at even the smallest case of sniffles), so, with that in mind, he makes his way to the boys' room and ever-so-gently nudges the door open with his shoulder.

Matthew is curled up into a ball under his blanket, peacefully asleep and mouth half-parted, since he's having difficulty breathing through his congested nose. He's also shivering from a bout of chills caused by his fever. Arthur sets down the two trays of food on the boy's nearby desk and softly presses his hand to his forehead—he's a little warmer than when he last checked.

"Matthew, love, time to wake up," he says softly, carding his hand through the boy's hair. "You need to have something to eat."

Matthew stirs and opens his bleary, bloodshot eyes. It's clear he isn't feeling any better, and Arthur feels his heart contract when the boy sniffles and lets out a small whine. "Dad…"

"Good morning, poppet. I brought you some breakfast."

"Not hungry…"

"I know, but you need to try to eat at least a little bit, all right?"

"Mmm…"

Arthur takes that as a concession and helps Matthew sit up before he places the tray of food in his lap. When he sees him reach for the toast and take a small nibble, he relents for the moment and turns his attention to the bed on the other side of the room where Alfred is lying on his stomach and cuddling his favorite teddy bear—Gilbear, the toy Gilbert Beilschmidt gifted him with when he had to spend some time in the hospital because of a complication involving his diabetes.

"Alfred, time to get up."

He checks Alfred's forehead as well, and to his displeasure, the child is burning up—a drastic spike from just a few hours ago. He clicks his tongue in great concern, retrieves the thermometer from the bedside table, and disinfects it.

"Alfred, I need to take your temperature," he says, making a second attempt at waking him. He gives his shoulder a little shake this time, and the boy finally rouses. He blinks a few times, realizes how awful he's feeling, and promptly bursts into tears, bottom lip quivering as he cries.

"I feel bad!" Alfred sobs before he suffers through a painful-sounding coughing fit that rises deep from his chest. He doubles over, and Arthur pats his back, trying to help him loosen the mucus in his lungs. Finally, it's over.

"It's going to be all right," Arthur promises as he slides the thermometer under his tongue-102.1. "I want you to eat some breakfast, and once you're done, I'll give you some cough syrup and something for your fever, okay?"

"No," Alfred groans, holding his stomach and closing his eyes. "I don't wanna eat, and I don't want medicine."

"I know, love, but it'll help, and you'll feel better. I'll set up a humidifier in here as well—it'll help both you and Matthew with your breathing."

Arthur hands a grumpy Alfred his breakfast, but he takes the glass of milk away because the last thing the boy needs with that kind of cough is a drink that will increase mucus production, and juice is out of the question because of his problems with his blood sugar. He gets him a glass of cool, plain water instead, much to the child's chagrin.

He makes a mental note to keep track of how much the boys are drinking because it's likely they're going to need persistent encouragement to keep hydrated. He doesn't want to nag them too much now, not when they've only just woken up, but that doesn't mean he's going to forget about the issue entirely.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Arthur tells the boys before leaving the room and crossing the hallway to tend to Francis. His husband, always the lighter sleeper of the two of them, raises his head as soon as he enters the bedroom, hair tangled and extra-wavy—a testament to how unwell he is.

"Good morning, my _least_ favorite patient," Arthur teases him as he approaches the bedside. He crouches down, folds his arms on the edge of the bed, and places his chin on top of them so he can be eye-to-eye with Francis and smile cheekily at him in full glory. "How are you feeling?"

Francis flicks him on the nose to get him to stop smiling at his misery and croaks, "I'm sick and dying."

It works because Arthur frowns. "You're not dying."

"Yes, I am."

"Well, then, let it be a lesson to you for being careless when you were around Matthew. You knew he was ill."

"Do something," Francis pleads, throwing his head back against his pillows. "Make it stop. You don't care that your husband of thirteen years is sick as a dog and needs your aid?"

Arthur shrugs his shoulders, feigning apathy.

"Arthur! You vowed to be by my side in sickness and in health!"

"I did, didn't I? Well, I guess I can't turn back time now," Arthur jokes darkly before feeling the man's forehead, disinfecting the thermometer he now has to carry with him at all times, and sliding it under Francis's tongue. "I'll bring up your breakfast. Keep the thermometer in your mouth until I return."

Francis makes a noise to show he understands, and Arthur treks downstairs to get the final tray of food. He's going to be running to and fro a lot today, it seems, and it reminds him of the work he does at the hospital and how on some days, he hardly gets the chance to sit down for even a minute during his twelve-hour (sometimes longer) shift.

"Dad!" he hears Matthew shout on his way back, and he hastily heads over to the boys' room again, depositing Francis's breakfast on the nearest side-table for a moment.

"Yes?" he asks as he walks in, but he doesn't need any clarification because Alfred is now sitting on the edge of the bed, pale and shivering with even more vigor than before. He's going to be sick.

Quickly, Arthur leads the boy out of the room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. Within seconds, Alfred's head is hanging over the toilet, and Arthur rubs circles into his back, trying to soothe him even though his efforts don't seem to be doing much.

Alfred sobs in between his retching and coughing, and when his stomach calms, he leans back into Arthur's arms and presses his head against his chest, seeking warmth and security.

"Shh, shhh," Arthur whispers, brushing his hair back and cleaning up his face and mouth with a dampened washcloth.

"I t-tried to eat breakfast," Alfred says pitifully as Arthur hugs him and pulls him closer. He's still burning up.

"It's all right, my boy. Let's get you back into bed, and then we can try to bring that fever down. I also want to check your blood sugar."

He helps the boy up, escorts him back to the room, makes sure he's as comfortable as he can be given the situation, and places a cold compress on his head. He doesn't know if Alfred will be able to hold down any medication, but it's worth a try, so after running another wet cloth over the boy's arms and legs, he coaxes him into drinking a syrup for the fever and another for his terrible cough. Alfred takes the medicine without much of a fuss, and he must truly feel awful if he doesn't even have the energy to complain.

"Take small sips of water every few minutes, love. It's very important, even though you feel nauseous."

Alfred nods his head weakly, and Arthur goes about getting everything he needs to check the child's blood sugar—if the boy's type 1 diabetes starts causing problems, he wants to catch it early and be able to nip it in the bud as soon as possible.

"Arthuuuuuur!" Francis suddenly calls him, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"One moment!"

"I need you!"

"I said, one moment!" Arthur growls, sterilizing Alfred's index finger with an alcohol wipe.

"Papa's sick, too?" Matthew asks from the other side of the bedroom.

"Yes, and he's going to be a thorn in my side for the foreseeable future...Hold still, poppet…"

Fortunately, Alfred is used to being poked and prodded by now, and he only flinches slightly at the finger-stick before Arthur places his bleeding finger on the awaiting test strip. The glucometer makes a chiming noise, and Arthur is pleased to see the reading is normal—a solid 95 milligrams per deciliter, which is good even by non-diabetic standards.

"Arthur!"

"I'm coming!" Arthur shouts back, frustrated. He holds the alcohol wipe to Alfred's finger for another few seconds to ensure the bleeding has stopped and cleans up his supplies. Once everything has been put in its rightful place, he washes his hands in the bathroom, picks up Francis's breakfast tray again, and goes back into the master bedroom.

"Finally! Where were you?" Francis moans dramatically.

"I was tending to the boys. I thought I told you to keep the thermometer in your mouth until I came back."

" _Oui_ , but you were gone for twenty minutes!"

"I'm sorry, but I can't be in two places at once," Arthur sighs, taking the thermometer from his husband before handing him his food. "The tea is probably cold by now. I'll make a fresh cup for you…Your temperature is 100.3—you're going to be fine."

"My head aches."

"I'll bring you some ibuprofen."

He treks down the stairs once more, fills the kettle in the kitchen with more water and brings it to a boil, makes a new, piping hot mug of tea with extra honey, gets the ibuprofen tablets out of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and brings both the medicine and the tea to Francis before he can start howling about how he's dying again. Almost immediately after he's done, he hears the sorrowful call of "Dad!" ringing from the boys' room for the second time.

"What's wrong?" he asks, poking his head into the room.

Matthew holds up an empty box of tissues, and Arthur takes it from him before going off on a search for a new box. He finds a whole stash in the storage closet by the front door along with the humidifier he'd promised to set up earlier. He cleans the humidifier thoroughly, fills it to the top with water, and brings his treasures back to the boys. He places his spoils on the nightstand between the boys' beds so they can have access to them and plugs the humidifier into the outlet in the wall. A moment later, the room is filled with a soft humming noise as steam begins to emit from it. Hopefully, it'll do wonders for the boys' nasal and chest congestion.

"Let me know if you boys need anything else, all right? I'll be checking in every once in a while. Try to rest," Arthur assures his sons as he takes their now abandoned breakfast trays. Matthew seems to have managed to eat half of his meal. Alfred, on the other hand, barely touched it, but now that he's already vomited once, he's not going to press him on the issue for the time being.

"Dad?" Alfred asks.

"Mmm?"

"My throat still hurts… I don't want that spray again though—it was gross."

Arthur frowns and puts both of his hands on the sides of the boy's neck, feeling his lymph nodes—they're definitely swollen. He sweeps out of the room again, takes yet another trip to the kitchen, and returns with a bag of lozenges. He hands the boy two of them. "Here, perhaps this'll be better. You can have two every four hours."

He leaves two on the nightstand for Matthew as well, should he decide he would like some, and when he runs out of things to do, he lets the boys continue resting and takes a breather of his own on the living room couch. Finally, a moment to collect his thoughts and—

His cellphone rings. That had better not be anyone from work. Don't these people understand he's on vacation?

He checks the caller ID, and to his surprise, it's Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"Hello?"

"Kirkland—I mean—Arthur! I forget first names are a commonplace thing outside of the hospital. How's it going? Can you believe my brother canceled our fishing trip because of a little, itsy-bitsy bit of rain? Who does he think he is?"

Arthur rolls his eyes because that's the only reaction he can muster. "Gilbert, there's a torrential downpour outside. I'd hardly call that a little rain."

"But what's it gonna do? Scare the fish away? They're lovin' the extra water! We could've grabbed an umbrella and still gone… Anyway, now I'm stuck at home with nothing to do on my vacation. Can you believe it? Oh! By the way, how's the kiddo doing? Any better?"

"Unfortunately, no, and now Francis and Alfred have caught it as well."

"What?" Gilbert gasps. "The whole family is sick? How about you? How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine for now. Everything is under control so far," Arthur says wearily, and as soon as he says that, he can hear Alfred calling for him in the distance. "Spoke too soon. Alfred needs me. I apologize, but I really can't talk now—I have my hands full."

"Wait! Are you sure everything is under control? Do you need an extra pair of hands? It's not like I'm doing anything today anyway."

"That's very kind of you, but you're on vacation, and I wouldn't bother you with my personal matters now."

"Bother me? It's not a bother! The awesome Dr. Beilschmidt is always ready to work. Besides, your kiddos could never be a bother—they're great," Gilbert insists. "Look, Arthur, if I know you like I think I know you, you're going to drive yourself into the ground from exhaustion taking care of everyone on your own. Let me lend a hand. I _want_ to help, and I'm not taking no for an answer. I can be there in an hour."

"Gilbert, it's really not—"

"See you then!"

The line goes dead, and Arthur groans as he stows his phone back into his pocket. What has he gotten himself into?

He should never have answered the call.

* * *

"Matt? Are you sleeping?"

"Not anymore," Matthew mumbles with a yawn and a sleepy glare, feet poking out from underneath his blanket as he tries to get comfortable again so he can go back to sleep.

"I'm bored. Can I put on the TV?"

"Do I get to pick what we watch?"

"No... Fine, can I find something we both like?"

"Okay."

They settle on a superhero movie, but their constant sniffling and coughing make it hard to focus. Alfred grimaces every time he misses part of the storyline because he either has to sneeze or because Matthew is blowing his nose. They think about maybe going back to sleep after all, but it's hard to sleep when they feel hot and restless with fever. When the commercial break comes on, the doorbell rings, saving them from their fit of boredom as they both start to wonder who might be visiting.

Did Papa order something online again? If so, Dad's going to yell at him for buying "useless rubbish we don't need," and Papa will say it was on sale and came with free shipping, so it was worth it.

Alfred volunteers to get up and see what's happening, but before he can move, the door swings open all of the way and the brief mystery solves itself.

" _Hallo_ , munchkins! The awesome Dr. Beilschmidt is making a house call today," Gilbert announces as he leans against the doorway. It's weird seeing him in a black t-shirt and torn up jeans instead of in his usual dress shirt, tie, slacks, and white coat. He does have his stethoscope draped around his neck, though. "A little birdie told me we've got an enterovirus on the loose."

"I need to do my rounds again," Dad says, joining Gilbert's side.

"Okay, but save some fun for me. Who's first?"

"Matthew!" Alfred shouts, much to his brother's dismay.

Matthew withdraws into the safety of his nest of blankets, looking as though he'd like to disappear. He doesn't like having the spotlight on him, no matter what the reason is. He rubs at his raw nose, sniffles, and it appears like he might start crying again—or maybe it's just the fever making his eyes watery.

"I don't bite, promise! Well, except for that one time at the dentist's—" Gilbert says, winking at Matthew and managing to get a small laugh out of him. He sits down on the edge of his bed and asks, "What's hurtin' ya kid?"

"My head and my throat," Matthew says very softly, holding a tissue up to his nose, which has been running nonstop for the past few hours now.

"You've got a headache, sore throat, and runny nose trifecta going on, huh? Good thing you've got Doctor Dad here and now me to kick the virus' butt. You know what's the best cure for a virus?"

"No, what?" Matthew asks, pushing his blanket away from his face as his curiosity makes him braver.

"This…" Gilbert says cryptically before assaulting his underarms with tickles.

Matthew giggles and tries to swat at Gilbert's hands, but the man doesn't stop until Matthew is almost breathless from laughter and there are happy tears in his eyes.

"Laughter and an apple a day—those are the tricks to staying out of the doctor's office," Gilbert insists, ruffling Matthew's hair for good measure. "Don't forget it."

Dad then takes Matthew's temperature, and as he's doing that, Gilbert skips over toward Alfred next, suddenly looking grave and grim. "I thought I told you you're not allowed to get sick, so what are you doing all cooped up in this bed, huh?"

"It's not my fault," Alfred whines as a stern hand presses against his forehead.

"Hmm… Oh, no," Gilbert says, eyes widening. He picks up Alfred's right arm and inspects it carefully. "I hope this isn't what it looks like."

"What? What's wrong?"

"The virus may have traveled to your funny bone, and when your funny bone is sick, you can never laugh again."

From across the room, Dad snorts but doesn't say anything, back turned as he holds the thermometer in Matthew's mouth.

"Really?" Alfred asks, skeptical.

"Yup. I've seen plenty of kids who had to get their funny bones replaced… I need to do some tests to find out how bad this is," Gilbert explains before setting his stethoscope on Alfred's forearm and listening intently. "Just as I thought. It may be too late."

Alfred stiffens as Gilbert removes the stethoscope, legitimately worried. "So, what's gonna happen to me?"

"We can try to fix it, but to do that, I need you to go through some exercises with me. Repeat after me, 'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.'"

"Peter Piper picked a pickle—agh!"

Gilbert frowns. "That's a bad sign. We may need to operate right here."

" _What_?"

"There's no other way. Right, Arthur?"

Dad takes the thermometer out of Matthew's mouth, raises both of his brows, and says with a straight face, "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Let me just get my scalpel so we can get this over with," Gilbert says.

"No!" Alfred shouts, jumping out of bed, and that's when both Matthew and Dad start laughing at his expense. "I'll never laugh again, just don't cut me open!"

Gilbert bites his lip to contain his own smile. "Okay, okay… Relax, kid. Your funny bone is just fine," he assures, coaxing Alfred back into bed. Joke's over. "You're gonna be all right."

Alfred's pride is hurt by being the brunt of everyone's amusement, and, as a result, he crosses his arms and pouts. "That wasn't funny."

"I'm sorry for scaring you," Gilbert chuckles, stepping aside as Dad comes over to take his place so he can check Alfred's temperature next.

"It's lower—the medication is doing its job," Dad says when the reading is done. "I'll bring you boys some more water."

" _Arthuuuuuur!"_

Dad smiles dryly and tells Gilbert, "That's Francis. He's feeling neglected today. Can you handle things here for a moment while I check in on him?"

"Sure, that's what I'm here for!"

As soon as Dad leaves the room, Gilbert turns toward the boys, grins at them, and says, "Okay, who wants to hear an awesome story about how I saved a three-month-old baby's life last week?"

Crickets…

"You guys are no fun," Gilbert huffs, skulking off to fetch that water Dad had mentioned earlier.

* * *

"I'm here to cater to your every whim now. Your wish is my command," Arthur says as he crawls into bed next to Francis, one hand reaching up to feel his head. He's clearly envious that the boys are receiving more of his doctoring and that there isn't an equal distribution of care. "Any better?"

" _Non_ , I'm still dying, and now you've invited Gilbert, so I'm going to die twice as fast."

"Gilbert may prove to be useful, and you don't feel as warm as you did before."

Francis makes an unintelligible noise and rises unsteadily to his feet, wincing at the pain in his sinuses.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To check on the boys," Francis mutters.

"That's what Gilbert and I are doing. The boys are fine."

" _Mathieu_ will want me to sing to him."

"He's nine, Francis."

"Exactly. He needs his papa."

"I can see there's no reasoning with you," Arthur surrenders, watching Francis disappear into the hallway. At least he's willing to be up and about again—a good indicator of some progress.

Now that he's alone in the bed, he's made aware of how nice it would be to lie back and take a quick nap. His head twinges a little—he must be getting a migraine from the commotion. He shuts his eyes for a moment and swallows against his dry throat, reimagining that cruise in the Caribbean and how he would step off of the ship to plod along the shoreline before lying in the warm, off-white sand of the beach. He'd have one of those drinks with the colorful parasols in them. Someone would ask him, "how are you?", and he'd be able to say, "wonderful, and you?" They'd talk about something mindless for a minute, and then they'd leave, and he'd pick up a book, preferably something by Jane Austen or H.G. Wells if he were feeling particularly idiosyncratic.

"Arthur?"

He jolts and snaps his eyes open. "Yes? What's going on?"

It's Gilbert. "Sorry, just wondered where you went. You've been gone for a while."

"A while?" he asks, rubbing his face.

"Yeah, almost two hours. Francis is feeling better and made the kiddos some lunch."

Two hours? He was asleep for nearly _two hours_?

"Ah, I see…Well…My apologies for disappearing so suddenly," he murmurs, sitting up. How irresponsible of him to doze off like that.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, of course."

Except, now that he thinks about it, his throat does feel a tad scratchy and his migraine hasn't gone away.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, don't be ridiculous."

He tells himself not to succumb. This is nothing he can't handle. The boys and Francis need him to be healthy so he can tend to them, and this is no time to be resting. Instead, it's time to go around and check everyone's vitals again.

When he has to stifle a sneeze into the crook of his arm ten minutes later, he writes it off as a dust allergy. He's fine. Better than fine. Fantastic, even. He's on vacation, and he's just dandy.

If he repeats it enough times, he'll convince himself eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

When is that aspirin going to kick in? He caved in and decided to take a pill over an hour ago, and his head is still _pounding_.

"So, this six-year-old comes in breathing like an eighty-year-old with COPD who still smokes a pack of cigarettes a day. The idiots down at the ER misdiagnose it as asthma even though she's running a high fever and has no previous history of breathing problems. Her WBC count is high—it's clearly an infection. The mother says the kid had croup a little while back and was doing better. By the time she gets sent up to me, it's because her oxygen saturation is falling fast, and she's borderline cyanotic."

Gilbert pauses his anecdote for dramatic effect and takes a sip from the can of soda he stole from the fridge. If given the opportunity, the man will recount stories from the ICU for hours on end before he runs out material to share.

Arthur doesn't really mind the rambling because while Gilbert prattles on, he gets to work on trying to make soup, despite his increasingly irritating headache. His cooking capabilities are notoriously bad, but he's fairly sure he can manage to put together a pot of chicken noodle soup if he follows the recipe he printed out from a website. It may not be as savory and delectable as Francis's dishes are, but it will have to do.

Nevertheless, standing over a steaming pot of soup isn't doing his headache any favors.

As he starts adding sliced carrots into the broth, Gilbert continues his tale, "Of course, I do a laryngoscopy and what do I find? God damned bacterial tracheitis. Poor kid had to be intubated until the antibiotics started to work… Moral of the story? Some people shouldn't be doctors because they're more likely to kill a patient than to save them."

Arthur hums to signal he's still listening and that he agrees. His throat, however, is rebelling more and more by the minute, and the more he tries to rid himself of the scratchiness, the worse it gets. However, he's still under the impression that if he goes about his tasks for the day, his symptoms will dissipate as a result of his sheer stubbornness.

"She turned out fine, thankfully… Had another kid with abdominal pain that turned out to be intussusception and—let me tell you—getting a nasogastric tube into a screaming two-year-old who is scared out of his mind is not an adventure I'd wish upon anyone."

Arthur hums again and buries a string of coughs into the crook of his arm, grimacing at how deep and hollow the coughs sound. When he's done, he's left with a slight burning sensation in his lungs.

"You okay?" Gilbert asks, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why don't you just admit you're coming down with the virus, too?"

"I'm fine. Something in the air is irritating me," Arthur rasps before filling up a glass of water for himself and chugging it. It helps.

"Feel a fever coming on by any chance?"

"No," Arthur assures curtly, stirring the soup with greater intensity than before. It's quite remarkable really—he deals with dozens of patients on a daily basis, and he comes into contact with everything ranging from pneumonia and malaria to norovirus and tuberculosis, and yet, he hasn't contracted a virus from a patient in years. A little enterovirus, however, and he's rendered exhausted and miserable. Already, he can feel his sinuses clogging, and soon, his nose will be running.

He's almost forgotten what it's like to be ill. He can't remember the last time he's contracted anything worse than a common cold.

" _Daaaaaad_!"

He sets the burner on the stove to the lowest flame and ambles over to the stairs with Gilbert trailing just behind him, wondering what's wrong this time, and, goodness gracious, he must be getting old because his knees are starting to ache from all of the back and forth stair-climbing.

Alfred is standing outside of his room, soaked in his own sweat and white as a sheet. He's a little wobbly on his feet, tottering forward as he tries to come closer, and Arthur instantly raises his hands to the boy's waist, steadying him.

This isn't good.

"Alfred? Tell me what's wrong."

"I feel weak," the boy mumbles, eyes half-open and noticeably drowsy.

Sirens go off in Arthur's head. Early signs of diabetic shock, perhaps? Is he dehydrated? Is he going to lose consciousness?

He doesn't waste too much time pondering the possibilities, choosing to steer Alfred back into bed first, lest he collapses and hurts himself. They make it to the boys' room without any problems, and Arthur carefully helps Alfred lie down flat on his back while simultaneously creating a mental checklist of all of the things he needs to do to ensure this sudden bout of weakness isn't anything more serious.

"Gilbert, can you elevate his legs?"

"Already on it," Gilbert replies, stacking pillows beneath Alfred's calves.

From across the room, Matthew props himself up and watches with growing worry. He needs to make sure everything is in order, it's his duty as Alfred's brother. "What are you going to do? Is it gonna hurt him?"

"No, it's not going to hurt." Arthur pledges as he secures a blood pressure cuff around Alfred's arm and tells him to hold still and relax—this won't take more than a minute. He presses his stethoscope to the crook of Alfred's elbow, listens for his pulse, inflates the cuff, and watches the readings on the meter. "Eighty-three over fifty... Hypotension."

"What's hippo-tension?" Alfred asks, furrowing his brows as Arthur takes the cuff off.

"Hypotension," Arthur corrects before prepping Alfred's index finger for yet another finger-stick, so he can check his blood sugar next. "It means your blood pressure is low, and low blood pressure can make you feel dizzy and lightheaded. It's likely being caused by the fact that you haven't been drinking enough fluids and haven't had much to eat."

Alfred sticks his bottom lip out and says, "But I'm not thirsty or hungry."

"You should be eating and drinking regardless," Arthur insists, pricking Alfred's finger and guiding it to the glucometer yet again—only 40 milligrams per deciliter now. "Your blood sugar is low as well. That explains why you're feeling weak. I'll get you some juice—it'll help."

He leaves Alfred in Gilbert's care for a minute or two and returns with a tall glass of apple juice, which should help to bring his sugar up. Arthur also has some glucagon in case he can't hold down any liquids and goes into shock. Thankfully, it doesn't seem as though that'll be necessary because the color is already returning to Alfred's cheeks simply from lying in bed and having his legs elevated.

"Take small, slow sips," Arthur instructs as he hands him the glass. "If you don't start hydrating yourself better, you'll have to go to the emergency room for fluid and electrolyte replacement, and I know you wouldn't enjoy that."

Gilbert affirms the warning with a grave nod in Alfred's direction and adds, "And then I won't be a happy camper because I'll have to sit with you in the ER since everyone else is sick, and I hate being in the ER."

Alfred swallows some juice and winces at the pain in his throat. "Dad's sick, too?"

"He sure is," Gilbert confirms.

"No, I'm not. I told you I'm fine," Arthur huffs, clearing his throat indignantly.

"Uh-huh. Then why is your voice starting to get all nasally?"

"It's not."

"It sure is."

Arthur then has to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve, caught off guard by the itch in his nose. He sniffles afterward, clears his throat again, and murmurs, "I'm fine."

"Bless you," Gilbert says with an I-told-you-so grin.

"No, I refuse to accept your blessings."

"Dad, you need to drink water and rest," Matthew suggests from his end of the room, looking genuinely concerned by the news.

Gilbert's grin gets even wider, which shouldn't even be possible. "The kid's right. I've taught him well."

" _You've_ taught him? I don't think so," Arthur grumbles, turning his head to the side for a moment to cough into his sleeve. Damn…His chest aches from the fit, and it leaves him a little winded. He also desperately needs a tissue so he can blow his nose, but he's not going to do it when there are witnesses around. "I need to check on the soup. I'll be back."

He sweeps out of the room, yearning for a bit of privacy. When he's a safe distance away, he makes a grab for the nearest box of tissues, holds a wad of them in his hands and allows himself a rattling sneeze that makes his eyes water.

Bloody hell…

* * *

" _So I put my hands up, they're playing my song, the butterflies fly away_ ," Gilbert sings to himself as he washes the dishes piled up in the kitchen sink. It took him a total of twenty-two minutes to convince Arthur to let him help clean the house, and they very nearly broke their friendship in the process because of their shared bullheadedness. The only reason Gilbert won the battle at all was due to the fact that Arthur surrendered to his splitting headache and was in too much pain to continue bickering. After a bit more prodding, he'd convinced the man to sit on the couch.

So, that's one point for the amazing Gilbert Beilschmidt and zero for his colleague. He cleans one last plate, sets it on the drying rack, and treats himself to one of the cookies in the cupboard. He's about to get himself a glass of milk to go with it, but as he's opening the fridge, he hears the creak of the floorboards in the living room and realizes Arthur is up and about again. What's he up to now? Can't he just sit down and not do anything for a little while?

Gilbert storms onto the scene and crosses his arms, feeling almost insulted when he sees Arthur grabbing his car keys and making his way to the door. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold it right there! Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to run out to the store to get more tissues, cough syrup, and throat lozenges. Could you check Alfred's blood sugar in ten minutes and let me know if he's doing any better? I should be back within an hour."

Has he lost his mind? "You're sick, and it's raining. I can go to the store. You stay here."

"No, no, you've done plenty already."

"Arthur, if you don't sit back down on that couch in the next five seconds…I'll…I don't know what I'll do, but you won't like it. Don't make me go and get Francis to come and set you in your place."

"Don't threaten me!"

Gilbert tries to snatch the car keys out of Arthur's hands but the man dodges him and makes a run for the front door.

This is getting ridiculous.

"Arthur Kirkland! Get back here! Who's going to be stuck slaving away at your bedside when you come back with pneumonia? Me, that's who!" Gilbert shouts as Arthur sprints to the parked car in the driveway. It's raining so hard that his umbrella doesn't do him any good. " _Mein Gott_ , I'm beginning to sound like my mother. I knew this day would come…"

Serves Arthur right. If he wants to be a _dummkopf_ and get himself twice as sick, then that's his problem. He'll be right here to tell him "I told you so" when he gets the chance.

Still, he frowns at the relentless deluge of water spilling from the sky and can't help but feel a little worried. The tissues, cough syrup, and throat lozenges could have waited until tomorrow.

He checks in on the rugrats, and, fortunately, they're both okay. Alfred's glucose levels are stabilizing, and both his and Matthew's temperatures have come down a bit. They're feeling well enough to play a videogame together, so that's definitely a good sign. The real test, however, won't happen until nightfall because that's when viruses notoriously get worse.

"Francis, are you alive in there?" he asks, knocking on the door to the master bedroom and pressing his ear against the wood.

" _Oui._ Where is Arthur?"

"He went to the store. He's sick and still went out into this rain."

At that, the bedroom door comes flying open so fast it almost smacks Gilbert in the bridge of his nose. He looks up to an irate Francis standing in front of him, blue eyes clouded with fever.

"You let him go out in this weather? Why didn't you stop him? He's going to be soaked to the bone!"

"I _tried_ to stop him."

"You should have tried harder. Just wait until he gets home," Francis growls, tightening his robe around himself to ward off his chills. He takes his cellphone off of the nightstand, and Gilbert tries not to snicker. He's looking forward to hearing Arthur get told off, and to his great satisfaction, Francis even does him the service of putting the call on speakerphone.

"Hello?" he hears Arthur's gruff voice say.

"Don't 'hello' me! Where are you?" Francis demands with an angry sniffle.

"At the store…"

"Come home _right now_!"

"I will as soon as I buy what we need."

"I can't believe you would be foolish enough to go out into this storm, especially when you're unwell!"

"I feel fine!" Arthur continues to insist.

"I cannot believe the nerve of you! You always do this—deny, deny, and deny some more until you're on the brink of collapse, but I'm not having it any longer! Do you hear me? I won't allow myself to be worried sick over someone who doesn't take my concerns to heart! I'm feverish, semi-dehydrated, and emotionally hollow from the stress you're putting me through at the moment! I'm sick and tired! Do you understand me? _Sick and tired_!"

Gilbert bites his tongue to keep from howling with whoops of victory and laughter because it seems like Francis has won this war for him.

After several seconds of white noise, Arthur sucks in a breath and murmurs a meek, "Fine."

"You had better be here in twenty minutes, Arthur!" Francis says with a tone of finality before hanging up with a resolute "Hmph!"

"Well, I think that's taken care of," Gilbert remarks once Francis has cooled down. "Good job."

"No, this isn't the end. Someone's going to have to tend to him when he returns."

Francis sweeps out of the room and gets some spare towels out of the closet before he jogs down the stairs and goes about making tea. For a good while, he stands around and silently seethes about this and that to himself, waiting impatiently for his husband's return so he can hit him over the head and yell at him some more. When their car comes cruising down the road and pulls into the driveway, he swings the front door open and glares at Arthur from a distance over the whipping wind and spray of rain.

When Arthur reaches the doorstep, Francis nabs the grocery bags from him and leaves them with Gilbert before yanking Arthur by the collar of his shirt and dragging him inside. He slams the door closed behind them and drops a clean towel over Arthur's head—the man is _sopping_ wet and shivering. It'd be endearing if Francis wasn't so aggravated.

"I'm going to kill you," Francis hisses at Arthur, helping to wring his hair out and wipe the water off of his face and arms.

"No, you won't," Arthur croaks hoarsely, fairly confident.

"You're losing your voice."

Arthur shakes his soaking head and tries to deny this as well, but it doesn't work out in his favor because the moment he opens his mouth to speak again, his throat protests and he has to grit his teeth against the soreness.

"Cat got your tongue, Arthur? Or will you finally admit to having enterovirus?" Gilbert mocks him as Francis tries to get him upstairs to take a warm shower.

Arthur sends him a scathing glare but can't respond with a witty and snarky reply of his own.

Silence has never sounded oh so sweet.

"Well, now that you're down for the count as well, I'm officially in charge!" Gilbert happily announces, twirling the tubing of his stethoscope around his finger, "and I'm declaring quarantine, so nobody gets in or out of this house until you've all recovered."

Arthur manages to whisper something that sounds angry and baneful, but he's hard to understand, and so, Gilbert merely shrugs his shoulders and grins, "Sorry, can't hear you. Take a shower, and I'll deal with you after. You have no idea how nice it is to not have you talking back."

Had Francis not been holding him back, Arthur may have lunged at Gilbert and demonstrated his fury instead of verbalizing it, but thankfully, Francis tames him and marches him into the bathroom. Once the sound of running water can be heard, they all have a chance to regain their composure, and Gilbert can consider his next plan of action.

By the time Arthur has showered and changed out of his dripping clothes, Gilbert is waiting to greet him in the hallway, thermometer in hand.

"You know what to do."

Looking like he's just swallowed an entire lemon, Arthur aggressively snatches the thermometer and puts it under his tongue, frowning. They stand there in the hallway for a minute or two, and when Arthur's temperature registers at long last, he stares at the reading and groans, slumping against the wall behind him.

"Let me see," Gilbert orders, prying the thermometer out of Arthur's grip…102.5. "Well, you can take yourself straight to bed with that fever."

" _Daaaaaad!_ "

Arthur starts walking toward the boys' room, but Gilbert tugs on his arm and pulls him back.

"I'll take care of it. Go lie down," Gilbert says, and Arthur can't argue even though it seems like he desperately wants to.

In the end, Arthur trots off to his own bedroom and Gilbert nods approvingly before peering in on the kiddos.

"What's up, my munchkins?" **  
**

"Mattie's gonna be sick," Alfred declares.

Gilbert scours the room for the nearest trash bin, finds one, and holds it in front of Matthew, making it just in time. A moment later, he's soothing the crying boy and patting his back over and over again. "Awww, kid, it's okay. I know you're not feeling too hot right now…Did you know I once puked in front of everyone at summer camp when I was twelve? I ate one too many _spritzkuchen_ —they're kind of like doughnuts—during our trip to the carnival…Wasn't fun. Ludwig still teases me for it."

He cleans up the mess, gives Matthew a cup of water to rinse his mouth, and tells the boys to call him if either one of them feels nauseous again.

"Where's Dad?" Alfred asks.

"He's not feeling too great, so go easy on him, 'kay? Unless you really need him specifically, call me instead."

"Oh…" Alfred frowns, disappointed. "Is he gonna be okay?"

Gilbert smiles. "Sure, he's gonna be fine. I, on the other hand, might not survive his wrath."

* * *

This is hell. It must be. He's supposed to be on _vacation_ , and when he'd planned to get more sleep and rest, this is not what he had in mind. Now he's lying on his side, unable to relax because his throat feels like it's been scraped with a razor from within. His nose is now completely blocked, and he's been forced to breathe through his mouth, which has only served to make his throat even dryer and more agitated. One moment he's burning up to the point where he feels like he's melting under the covers of the bed, and in the next, he's freezing cold and sidling up to Francis for extra body warmth.

"Arthur? Are you all right?" Francis asks him, sleepily rubbing circles into his shoulder. "Your breathing is worrying me."

It's late now. They all had a serving of soup before deciding to turn in early for the night, and, fortunately, the dish was edible—probably because Gilbert had ended up finishing it for him. It's around one o'clock in the morning now, and he hasn't been able to get a wink of sleep. Every five minutes or so he's wracked by a fresh coughing fit, and with every additional expulsion of air, his lungs ache more and more. His breathing has turned into wheezing. In the course of a few hours, he's gone from being a little rundown to as sick as a dog, and to make matters worse, he's been keeping Francis up as well.

"I'll sleep on the living room couch, so I don't keep waking you," Arthur whispers thinly with a heaving inhale. He starts to rise, but Francis grabs his arm to stop him.

"Wait. You shouldn't be alone like this. I'm going to look after you."

If he weren't so ill, Arthur would be tempted to laugh. Francis is clueless when it comes to medicine.

"I'll be all right."

"That's what you said earlier today, and now look at yourself," Francis reminds him. "At least sleep in the guest bedroom, where there's a real bed."

"I can't. Gilbert's there. He decided to spend the night, even though I told him it wasn't necessary."

"I'll go and wake him, then. I'm sure he'd understand."

"No, don't wake him," Arthur hisses as he frees himself from Francis's hold and stands up. "Just go to sleep."

Francis rolls his eyes and gives up. "Fine, if you want to be miserable on the couch and continue rejecting everyone's help, then be the stubborn mule you clearly want to be and do as you please. I don't want to fight with you anymore."

Although he feels a pang of guilt in his chest for upsetting Francis, Arthur grabs his pillow and plods his way downstairs through the darkness anyway. His husband will stop being cross with him eventually, and a full night's sleep without his constant coughing disturbing the Frenchman will do him good.

He shuffles over to the couch, collapses onto it, and suffers through another powerful cough. Hopefully, he's far enough away that the boys don't hear him. He'd hate to be the cause of their loss of sleep as well. He groans softly and stares up at the blackened ceiling, sucking in one loud breath after another. He just has to let this run its course.

 _"What are you doing down here?"_ a voice suddenly asks.

The light gets switched on, and Arthur is momentarily blinded. He throws a hand over his eyes and releases another pained groan. He was hoping Gilbert _wouldn't_ catch him.

"Whoops, sorry about that. Anyway, I'd like an answer to my question," Gilbert says with a small yawn, stethoscope dangling in one hand.

Once Arthur is able to open his red eyes again, he mumbles, "Did I wake you?"

" _Nein_ , I was checking in on the boys and heard you come down here. You still didn't answer my question—why are you here?"

"I was disturbing Francis," Arthur explains before he starts coughing again.

Gilbert prances over to his side, and triumphantly sings, " _I tooooooold you so_. How does it feel to be wrong? You're sick."

Arthur manages to quietly rasp, " _I hate you_."

"Hey, don't strain your throat. I'll get you fixed up, don't worry," Gilbert assures, placing his stethoscope on Arthur's chest despite his pitiful protests. "Take a big breath… Yikes—that's not good…Your lungs sound awful."

"I know."

"You're gonna break a rib at this rate…Come on, you should go to the guestroom," Gilbert suggests, helping Arthur onto his feet against his wishes. "You need to be monitored, and I wanna check your O2."

Too physically drained to stay on the couch for much longer, Arthur obediently lets himself be led to the damned guestroom. The trip up the stairs leaves him gasping and sweating, but he's in bed soon enough. He closes his eyes and all of his thoughts escape him—he's too overcome with fatigue to think about anything.

"You need to be at an incline—you're lying too flat. Ease the stress on your lungs," Gilbert instructs, stacking two more pillows under his sweating head and neck. "There ya go. That's better… The kids have got the stomach problem end of this thing, and you've got the respiratory distress."

The words sound jumbled in Arthur's head, but when Gilbert hands him a medicine cup filled with goopy cough syrup, he doesn't hesitate to swallow it. He'll try anything at this point to rid himself of the pain in his lungs.

"Good. Now have a few sips of water."

A glass is brought up to his lips, and he dutifully drinks from it. He can't tell if it's helping or not.

Then, he can feel a pulse oximeter being clamped onto his finger, and a moment later, Gilbert says, "Your O2 is still okay, so that's good. Try to fall asleep, and, don't worry—I'll be keeping an eye on everyone. Your breathing already sounds a little better."

"Keeping you up…" Arthur grumbles.

"Oh, stop. I've been sleeping in between doing rounds. Think of it like a slumber party. That way, it doesn't seem so depressing," Gilbert jokes. "Tomorrow we can all paint each other's nails and braid our hair. It'll be the vacation you've been waiting for."

Arthur opens his eyes so that Gilbert can see him roll them.

"What? You've never partied in quarantine before? I have to teach you how to have fun. For now, though, get some sleep, even though you feel like coughing up a lung."

"I'm physically incapable of having fun."

"Broke your funny bone just like Alfred did? Well, I can fix that, too, it's just gonna take some time. Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight."

He doesn't want to know what schemes the man has up his sleeves, not for now, at least. Instead, he takes in a shuddering breath and miraculously finds himself falling into a gentle sleep, breaths finally evening out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** For some reason I can't fathom, this final chapter ended up being over 6,000 words. I'm sorry for the length in advance, haha! Now that I've gotten this fluff out of my system, I'm on to writing more fluff that you guys have requested. Fluff and _lots_ of angst. You'll be seeing a lot more updates soon! As always, thanks for the support and for being incredible. :)

* * *

It's morning. Arthur can hear the birds chirping outside the window and the laughter of children playing in their yards. The sun's warmth sneaks in between the blinds and cascades over his face and neck, merging with the heat already radiating off of him from his fever.

He touches his pulsating head and discovers the cool compress Gilbert must have put on him—it's still cold and wet, so it must be fairly fresh. Honestly, there's no need for this fretting. He can take care of himself.

He goes through a mental checklist of his current symptoms: fever, headache, congestion, general fatigue, and an incessant, semi-productive cough. Marvelous.

He kicks away the covers and gets out of bed on unsteady feet. The pressure in his head makes him groan, and his groan triggers another sequence of coughs. It's like someone is cutting his chest open with a scalpel, and he has to grip the bedpost to recover, feeling dizzy. It'd be wise for him to get to the medicine cabinet for another dose of a cough suppressant and a round of ibuprofen. But first, he should check up on the boys and Francis and then attempt to eat something…He can add loss of appetite to his list because as soon as the thought of breakfast crosses his mind, he has the urge to be sick.

After coughing his way to the boys' room, his eyes fall upon two empty beds. Odd. Did they go off with Francis or Gilbert?

He steps over to the other bedroom and confirms his suspicions—Francis isn't in bed either.

Shame rises from Arthur's stomach. Is he the last one up? It seems that might be the case, which is, frankly, unacceptable. He should be helping to care for everyone, not sleeping in. He's failing at his one job.

Upon going downstairs and reaching the living room, he's greeted by a quaint sight. Alfred and Matthew are situated on the couch, knees drawn up to their chests. There's a blanket over them, and their eyes are fixated on a movie playing on the TV. On the coffee table in front of them lie two plates covered with crumbs along with two empty glasses—evidence that they've already had breakfast.

"Hi, Dad!" Alfred says when he notices him. "You okay?"

"Good morning," Matthew adds in, looking far better than he did yesterday.

"Good morning, my boys. I'm fine, thank you for asking, Alfred," Arthur responds without skipping a beat. He clears his throat, runs a hand over his fever-glazed eyes, and hopes he looks somewhat presentable and decent to argue that he really is all right.

That hope is shattered a second later when Alfred says, "You don't look fine. Gilbert said you were really sick last night."

"Gilbert can exaggerate at times. How are you both feeling? Have you had your temperatures checked yet?"

Matthew sniffles softly at that and perks up. "My fever's almost gone."

Arthur gives him an encouraging smile and walks over to the couch to feel each of the boys' foreheads in turn. He can confirm that Matthew's fever seems to be breaking. Alfred, on the other hand, still feels fairly warm. "That's wonderful, poppet…Alfred, you're still running a high temperature. You should be resting in bed."

"But I'm tired of being in bed!" Alfred whines, crossing his arms. "Gilbert said I could stay on the couch if I want."

Well, as long as the boy isn't up and about, he supposes there's no harm in him being in the living room. It's understandable that he's feeling restless.

"All right," he relents. "Any problems with your blood sugar that I should know about?"

Alfred shakes his head and curls up more tightly underneath the blanket, goosebumps cropping up on his arms and legs from his persistent chills. "Nope."

"Good. Where's Papa?"

Matthew chimes in, "He's in the kitchen with Gilbert."

Eager to investigate, Arthur ambles onward and, sure enough, he is made aware of the sound of chatter emanating from nearby. He finds Francis and Gilbert sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Gilbert is absently working on a crossword puzzle in the newspaper while Francis telling him some sort of tale about recent Parisian politics.

"And so, I thought that they would make an effort to—oh, Arthur! Good morning, _mon cher_. Were you able to get some sleep at last?" Francis asks, cutting himself off.

"Yes, I'm sorry for—"

"I wish you'd stop apologizing. When you're healthy, you never apologize for anything, but the moment you're ill, you're suddenly intent on saying sorry for everything," Francis interjects.

"That's not true in the slightest."

" _Ja_ , it is," Gilbert counters, pushing aside his newspaper. "You were boiling a few hours ago, in case you didn't know. Go lie down. I swear you're worse than Alfred. Do I have to start bribing you with food and toys to get you to listen, too? Sit down, at least."

"I know my limits," Arthur argues, "And I assure you that I can manage to care for—"

He has to stop to cough. Damn this virus. His shoulders hunch forward, and he covers his mouth with his sleeve as the itch in his chest grows more powerful. Tears involuntarily spring up in his eyes as he gasps for breath.

Gilbert comes to his rescue and pounds a hand against his back, trying to help break up the mucus in his useless lungs. "Francis, get us some water, please. And Arthur, sit down for God's sake before you kill yourself."

Without protest this time, Arthur obediently takes up a chair at the table, doubling over as he continues to cough.

"Here you are, _mon amour_ ," Francis says, placing a tall glass of water in front of him.

He carefully takes a sip, managing not to spill it all over himself.

"Now do you understand why you need to be bedridden?" Gilbert asks gruffly.

Francis worriedly pecks his forehead with a kiss and says, "You're very warm. Let us take care of you."

Arthur sighs and wishes these two would stop their nagging and doting already. Maybe he should slow down until his respiratory system learns to cooperate with him again, but he doesn't need anyone watching his every move. He takes another sip of water and starts piecing together all of his knowledge on home remedies for chest congestion—the sooner he can treat himself, the better.

Ignoring the protests from Gilbert and Francis, he gets up and goes to the cupboard to get his favorite box of tea. Then, he fills the kettle with water and sets it on the stove. The entire time, Gilbert is hovering beside him, looking as if he'd like to break something.

"I could have made your stupid tea," Gilbert seethes. "You shouldn't be drinking tea anyway because of your fever, but if you really want it, you can have it lukewarm."

"You mean cold," Arthur frowns.

"No, I mean lukewarm."

"Which essentially means cold."

"Nope, not the same thing, and you know that," Gilbert huffs decisively before nudging Arthur out of the way and taking over. "Don't get on my bad side or I'll make you eat raw ginger. Sit with the kiddos, and I'll get you some more cough syrup. Francis can scrounge you up a plate of breakfast."

Arthur opens his mouth to chide Gilbert for trying to threaten him again, but his lungs flare up and draw more coughs out of him. In the end, he has no choice but to slump his shoulders and peevishly make his way over to the couch. Matthew scoots over to the middle, and Arthur tiredly sits to the left of the boys, sniffling to regain feeling in his nose to no avail.

"I feel like we're camping," Alfred says once they're all resettled and leaning back comfortably. He pulls his legs into a pretzel and rocks back and forth slightly, looking excited and energized despite the signs of illness on his face. "'Cause we're all together under a bunch of blankets, and it's raining out, so it's kinda dark inside since we don't have all the lights on."

"I'm glad someone is able to see the silver lining in this situation," Arthur replies, allowing himself a soft smile. He wraps an arm around Matthew's shoulders, and the boy doesn't hesitate to rest his head against his overly-warm chest, yearning for comfort. A moment later, Alfred slides over to them to be nearer as well.

"It does feel like camping," Matthew quietly agrees, clutching part of Arthur's t-shirt in his fist. "I like it when everyone's home."

Something in Arthur's heart snaps. He's sure of it. He knows what Matthew is eluding to—he isn't home enough. The unfortunate reality of his job is that he's always running to and fro, never pausing for too long to spend time with the entire family or to tell them how much he loves them. It's so easy to get caught up in the constant buzz of work—of his long shifts at the hospital that take up most of his daily life—that he often forgets the simple, little things like sitting under a blanket with his children.

How many times have Alfred and Matthew wondered when he's going to be home? How many times have they stopped to miss his presence? How many times have they wanted him to merely sit here and be with them—even if only for the purpose of watching a TV show together?

"I know we don't get to spend time together often enough, and I'm sorry for that," he tells Matthew, petting the boy's hair. "I wish I didn't have to work as much as I do."

"It's okay," Matthew sighs, holding him tighter.

"No, it's not."

"At least we get to tell everyone our dad's a hero," Alfred says, eyes glimmering with happiness. "You save people's lives."

Arthur clicks his tongue and meets Alfred's gaze. "Not always."

"I wanna be a doctor like you someday," Alfred continues, as if not hearing him. Honestly, everything he tells the child seems to go in one ear and out the other at least eighty percent of the time.

And maybe it's just a silly and natural thing that all children say—"I want to be just like my [insert family member here]," and Arthur is sure Alfred will change his mind a million times over about what he wants to be, but the words are strike a chord anyway, and for a second, he is left speechless.

He can't imagine why anyone would want to be like him. He is flawed in many ways, and yet, for some reason he'll never quite understand, he's enough for Alfred and Matthew. He is far from a perfect father and has made more mistakes than he'd like to recall, but the world hasn't imploded and his sons haven't come to despise him.

Francis comes into the living room just then. A splash of color has returned to his face, replacing the sheen of illness that was there before. Perhaps it's the fever that makes him sentimental, but when Arthur sees him standing there in the doorway, slippers on his feet and hair uncombed, he seems like the most spectacular sight in the universe, and Arthur is overcome with admiration and love for him. Somehow, the two of them have made it this far together. Despite their quarrels and trivial albeit constant back-and-forths, they've managed to keep their quirky family afloat.

"Mind if I join the party?" Francis asks with a little grin before perching himself on the opposite side of the couch, next to Alfred. He wraps his arm around the boy just as Arthur has his arm around Matthew, and Alfred flops down into his papa's lap, more than content with being fussed over and coddled.

Just like camping...If Arthur imagines hard enough, it almost seems like a vacation. Gilbert provides them with more pillows than they need so that the boys can build a pillow fort around them to pass the time while the TV hums the theme song of a cartoon. The rain outside taps gently against the windows, and they burrow underneath a large quilt that the four of them can all fit under.

Arthur nibbles half-heartedly on some toast and drinks his tepid tea. Francis talks about potential ideas for an actual vacation that they can go on once they've all recovered, and Gilbert tidies up the house and steps into another room to call his brother Ludwig so he can keep him updated on the escapades they've had thus far.

At peace at last, Arthur lets out a small cough and feels himself nodding off. He thinks Francis cards a hand through his hair at some point and whispers, "Get some rest, _mon coeur_."

He can sense Alfred and Matthew still wriggling under the quilt but that just draws him even deeper into sleep. One moment he sees Francis talking to the boys and laughing with them, and in the next, he's drifting away.

* * *

 _"DAD!"_

 _Alfred is lying on the floor, as limp as stone. His fingertips are tinged with blue and his eyes are closed as Francis yells at him to do something—anything. Why didn't he come sooner? Always late to the party. Always too late for his family. Always too late to his own life._

 _"Why couldn't you save him?"_

 _"Why weren't you here?" Matthew suddenly says, appearing behind him with teary eyes._

 _"I'm doing everything I can."_

 _But no, that's a lie. He has failed Alfred. Failed his family. Failed to be there when it mattered most._

* * *

"Code blue, Matt! He's flat-lining!"

"What do we do?"

"Hand me the paddles, duh! Haven't you ever watched what they do on TV? Use the empty tissue boxes."

"Oh, erm—right, sorry."

"BZZZT!"

"Did we save him?"

"Shh! I dunno yet. These things take time, Matt. You can't just do it once and expect him to live, you know. Clear! BZZZT!"

Did someone hit him over the head with a mallet? Sure feels like it. So, it was all just a dream, then? Fever dream, no doubt.

Arthur painfully flutters his eyes open, only to find Alfred sitting on his legs with Gilbert's stethoscope hanging from his neck and two empty tissue boxes on each of his hands. Matthew is faithfully sitting beside him on the couch, awaiting further instruction.

"Alfred, can I ask what on earth you're doing?"

Instead of answering his question, Alfred sits upright and shouts, "We did it! We saved him! He's alive!"

"Saved me?" Arthur asks with a groan. His fever isn't giving up yet—he can feel the discomfort of it still hiding beneath his skin.

"The patient is confused, Dr. Mattie. Ask him where he is."

Matthew blinks three times in rapid succession and murmurs, "Do you know where you are?"

Arthur, still trying to get his groggy, fevered mind to process all of this, says, "The living room?"

"Dr. Al, the patient knows where he is. What now?"

"Ask him how he feels."

"Uh, okay...How do you feel?"

"Bloody awful."

"He said—"

"I heard what he said, Dr. Mattie. I'm not deaf, ya know," Alfred mutters. Then, without warning, he jabs two fingers against Arthur's trachea.

"Aghh, what was that for?" Arthur demands, swatting the boy's hand away.

"Dr. Al, please don't hurt the patient."

"Don't worry, Dr. Matt. Just checking his pulse."

Normally, Arthur would have scolded the boys by now and told them to stop fooling around at his expense, but he's incredibly tired and in quite a bit of pain, and so, he can't be bothered to raise his tone at the moment and function like a parent should.

Instead, he says, "That's not where my pulse is," and guides Alfred's fingers to the side of his neck, beneath his ear. "Check now."

"I can't feel anything. The patient is dead, Dr. Mattie!"

Arthur rolls his eyes and Matthew snickers. "Stop talking and press down a little more firmly. Feel it now?"

"...Yeah, I think so. Scratch that, Dr. Matt. The patient is alive!" Alfred cries out jubilantly. He puts the buds of Gilbert's stethoscope into his ears and presses the diaphragm to the center of Arthur's chest.

Again, Arthur takes hold of Alfred's hand and moves it so that he has the stethoscope on the correct spot—over his heart. After a second, he shifts it again and puts it over his right lung.

"I wanna try, too!" Matthew insists, and Alfred relents enough to let him have a go at it as well. When they've both played with the stethoscope and are sufficiently bored with it, they continue their innovative doctoring with other instruments.

Alfred rummages around with some items on the coffee table and then brandishes a thermometer in front of Arthur's mouth. He rips open the wrapping of one of the alcohol wipes on the table and sterilizes it—Arthur has taught the boy well—before he says, "Under your tongue, mister."

Well, this is certainly one way to spend more time with the boys, Arthur supposes. No harm in letting them have their fun for now. Obediently, he lets his mouth fall open and allows Alfred to slip the thermometer between his lips.

"If I could just—"

"Shh! No talking!"

"Right, sorry," Arthur says with pursed smile, voice muffled by the thermometer. It's been a while since he's had the opportunity to play with the boys, and although this wouldn't exactly be his game of choice, it'll do for now.

To Arthur's chagrin, Alfred finds his penlight, and a second later, the boy is shining the bright light into his eyes, which only worsens his seemingly never-ending headache. When he can stand it no longer, Arthur takes the penlight away and shines it playfully into Alfred's eyes instead, making him squint.

"Eeek!" the boy squeals, and Matthew lets out a peal of laughter. "Dr. Mattie, we've got a bad patient!"

"I deny that accusation," Arthur mumbles.

"Hey! I said no talking!" Alfred reminds, wagging a finger at him, and just then, the thermometer gives a cheerful beep. He takes it out of Arthur's mouth, holds it up to the light, and pretends to narrow his eyes at it very seriously. "You're sick."

"You don't say? Let me see that," Arthur requests, looking at the reading for himself—102.1...Hardly an improvement.

"Let me do something!" Matthew complains.

Alfred climbs off of Arthur's legs and stands up beside the couch. "You're just the intern, though!"

"Am not!"

"Yeah, you are, but fine, you can try, too."

Without delay, Matthew takes Alfred's place and says, "Gimme the penlight and a tongue depressor."

Arthur is regretting leaving his supplies out in the open. His medical resources often end up scattered around the house, and it's no wonder the boys are using them against him now.

"Say, 'ahh,' Dad!"

"Don't call him, Dad! He's our patient, remember?" Alfred corrects his brother.

"Oh, yeah," Matthew murmurs, absently acknowledging the slip-up.

Arthur will admit he can appreciate the cuteness of this moment, but he isn't happy about it in the least. He opens his mouth again and utters a pained 'ahh,' because his throat still hurts a fair amount. Matthew accidentally pokes the inside of his cheek, and he apologizes when Arthur flinches.

When Matthew's done, he sets the penlight aside and tells Alfred, "Gimme a cotton swab."

And that's where Arthur has to draw the line because as much as he loves the boys and is willing to go along with their machinations, he does not trust them enough to let them stick a swab into his throat without worrying they will injure him or make him choke.

"That's enough," he announces firmly, sitting up. "Thank you, doctors, but I think I can take it from here."

As luck would have it, Gilbert traipses in just then, whistling a tune as he comes over to the couch to find out what's going on. "Hey, kiddos...I mean, Doctors Alfred and Matthew...How's the patient doing?"

"He said he's much better," Matthew tattles.

Arthur watches Gilbert pick up the thermometer off of the table and knows his claim is about to be debunked.

"Hmm, doesn't look much better to me. I'll get you some meds, Arthur. Also, it might interest you to know that Francis has a bad case of man-flu. His fever has already broken, and he's still moping around like he's on his death bed."

Arthur allows himself a snort of laughter and says, "Oh, believe me, I know. He won't be back to normal for at least another two days, and I won't stop hearing about how awful all of this was for him for the rest of the month."

"Wow, well, I'll let you deal with him, then...Okay, kiddos, time to give your dad a break and go to your beds."

In unison, Alfred and Matthew dreadfully whine, "No!"

"Thanks for shooting down that idea right away," Gilbert says disappointedly. "The rain finally stopped. How about I let you guys sit outside on the steps for a few minutes to get some air? But only for a few minutes!"

That idea seems to go over well, and so, while the boys scurry off to get their shoes, Gilbert procures a number of pills and syrups for Arthur to take, watches him swallow them with a glass of water, and says, "While needy patients can be annoying, noncompliant patients like you drive me even crazier."

"I'm not noncompliant. I just took dextromethorphan for you. You should feel honored."

" _Ja_ , I feel blessed," Gilbert scoffs. "Just please let me know if you feel worse or if the meds don't help, 'kay?

"I feel better already."

"Arthur, I'm serious. I know you can doctor yourself, but you shouldn't have to. Besides, you're on vacation, so you should be all right with me catering to your whims."

"You're on vacation as well, in case you've forgotten," Arthur points out in between yet another rough cough.

"Oh, I know. There's nothing I love more than being a doctor, so every day is a vacation for me."

Arthur bursts out laughing but regrets it when he gets stuck in another coughing spree. "That's a bold-faced lie."

"It's a half-truth. I really don't love anything more than being a doctor, but there are days when I just want to wring someone's neck, like when a new nurse or an intern page me at four in the morning to order Colace."

"I've had that happen to me as well."

"Hasn't everyone? That's when I lose all compassion for a colleague," Gilbert huffs. "All right, I'm gonna let the kiddos out. Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone."

"I'll try not to."

Once Gilbert is out of view, Arthur takes the opportunity to get up and stretch, back aching from having slept in a crooked position on the couch. He slowly makes it upstairs and returns to the bedroom, where he finds Francis browsing something on his laptop.

"What are you up to? Gilbert tells me you've been particularly bothersome lately," he says as he lies down next to his husband. Is it just him, or has the bed become cozier since the last time he slept in it?

"Just looking through some resorts in Cancún," Francis responds, typing away.

Arthur leans over to have a better look at the website Francis is perusing and says, "You don't have to go through the trouble of finding a place for us to go to. I know you're not particularly fond of traveling, and you don't have to do so just for me. I can sunbathe in the backyard."

Francis chuckles. "We deserve to go away someplace after this week."

"This is going to sound horrendously sentimental, but I've learned something from this experience."

"What's that?"

"That what really makes me happy is simply being around you and the boys, and that's all I could ask for from a vacation."

"You're right...That was horrendously sentimental," Francis teases, eliciting an angry growl from Arthur.

"I take back what I said. Just being around the boys makes me happy. I can do without your company."

Francis snickers and gives Arthur a small kiss. "But I can't do without yours, so I guess you'll be stuck with me anyway."

"Woe is me."

"You're feeling better—your impudence is returning."

"So, Cancún it is?"

* * *

There's some kind of commotion going on downstairs.

Arthur isn't sure what it is because he's been in and out of sleep all day and for most of the early evening—a side effect of his breathing difficulties. The more he sleeps, the more exhausted he gets. His body simply isn't willing to let him recuperate yet, and although he knows he needs to be patient, it's not easy. He debates for a long time whether it'd be worthwhile to check out what's going on.

Francis is gone, so the bed is cold now. The only thing keeping him glued to his spot is the fact that his muscles ache, and his mind is still sluggish enough to want to lure him back into another long nap. He grabs a tissue and tries to get rid of the blockade in his sinuses by blowing his nose, but it doesn't do him any good. His head feels so full and filled with cotton that his ears are ringing from the pressure. On the bright side, his fever must have dropped at least somewhat because he doesn't feel quite as hot and bothered anymore.

He can either stay here and be miserable or go explore. Might as well explore.

By the time he makes it to the base of the stairs, he can hear laughter echoing from the living room and music playing. It's a relief to hear the house filled with noise again after it's been silent for a good while.

Still, he is not prepared for what he sees. The living room is adorned with party streamers made of neon construction paper, there's a banner taped to the wall with a drawing of a medical cross on it, everyone is drinking strawberry lemonade, and Gilbert seems to be playing some kind of trivia game with the boys and Francis.

"Look who's up! Come and join the party," Gilbert invites him. "We have some wholesome and educational games here. I'm asking the kiddos some medical questions, and whoever gets the most right gets to win a chocolate bar and a surgical mask. You're disqualified though, for obvious reasons, and Francis is disqualified because he's Francis."

"Fair enough," Arthur remarks as he sits down on the couch beside Francis while the boys play on the rug with Gilbert. He really has to commend Gilbert for his creativity. This will do wonders for the boys' undoubted restlessness.

Gilbert cracks his knuckles, picks up an index card, and says, "Okay, munchkins, remember to write your answers down on your cards and show them to me at the same time...When your body is fighting off infection, your [blank] blood cell count becomes high...You've got five seconds."

When five seconds have passed, Gilbert imitates the sound of a loud buzzer and announces, "Okay, hold up your cards!"

He reads both of the cards and grins. "You're both too smart for me. You got that one right—it was white blood cells... Okay, this one will be the tie breaker. You ready?"

Both of the boys nod and grab new cards, focused and ready.

"What's the organ in your abdomen that filters out your blood?" Gilbert asks, reading the question slowly and repeating it twice for dramatic effect. "Tick-tock, tick-tock. You guys ready? All right, this time, I want to see your cards individually—makes it more nerve-wracking. Alfred, show me your card."

Alfred bites his lower lip as he finishes writing his answer and holds it up for Gilbert to see.

"Eeeeeeh, incorrect. It's not the kidneys. Matt?"

Sheepishly, Matthew reveals his card next.

"DING, DING, DING! We have a winner! The spleen is the correct answer! Congrats, kid! You just won a bar of the finest chocolate and this handy dandy medical mask."

Alfred pouts but is a good sport about the loss. Arthur, however, comes to his aid and isn't as easily placated.

"Excuse me, I'd like to state an objection!" he intervenes, glowering at Gilbert. "The kidneys filter fluid out of the blood to produce urine, therefore, Alfred's answer wasn't incorrect. You should have specified you meant an organ in the immune system and not the urinary system."

Gilbert hands Matthew his prizes and gives him a pat on the back before frowning at Arthur. "I thought I told you that you were disqualified, Arthur."

"I can't stand idly by at the sight of injustice."

Alfred smiles triumphantly at Arthur and crosses his arms, pleased that someone came to his defense.

"Ugh, I'm telling you, Mattie, don't ever work with doctors. They're the worst," Gilbert says jokingly before giving Alfred a chocolate bar as well and another surgical mask. "Fine, you can have the rewards, too, Alfred. Your dad makes a good point, but I still think he's wrong and I'm right."

Thankfully, that's the end of the competitive gameplay because, apparently, Francis has made rice pudding for them all, and they're all digging into their dessert before any more bickering can break out. It's perfectly sweet yet still light enough for their recovering digestive systems.

And then, it's time for a movie marathon consisting of a bunch of animated films for the twins. Their party carries on into the night until Arthur finds himself trapped with a sleeping Alfred sprawled in his lap. The boy still has his prized surgical mask on his face, and he has decorated it with colorful sketches made with markers. Francis soon has the same dilemma with Matthew, and that's when they decide it's time to head back to bed and cut their party short.

Once the boys are in their bedroom, Arthur carefully slips the mask off of Alfred's face and plants a chaste kiss on his head, flooded with relief when he can no longer feel a fever.

They'll be better in no time.

* * *

Three more days, that's how long it takes for Arthur to finally get his bearings back. His nose is still stuffy, his voice is gruff, and an occasional cough still assaults him, but by all other standards, he is better, and so is the rest of the Bonnefoy-Kirkland family, for that matter.

He convinces Gilbert to leave at the start of the second day, mostly because Francis is back to his usual self by then, and the boys are no longer running temperatures despite being congested. Besides, the pediatrician has apparently rescheduled his fishing trip with Ludwig, and fortunately, it doesn't look like rain is in the forecast for at least the rest of the week. Alfred and Matthew make him promise to come over sometime when they're actually well so they can get ice cream together or go to the fair, and Gilbert crosses his heart and swears to hold true to his word.

Shortly after Arthur has regained feeling from the neck up and can go fifteen minutes without hacking up a lung, he rounds up the boys and Francis and drags them to the park because he can't stand being indoors any longer. The fresh air is so incredible he can almost taste how rejuvenating and sweet it is, and the mustiness of the house becomes a thing of the past. He leans back on a park bench with Francis as the boys play with their football and tells himself to enjoy these little, fleeting moments of relaxation while he has them.

Again, his mind drifts to the thought of lying in the hot sand with a cool drink in his hand. He envisages palm trees and seagulls and flip-flops clapping against the boardwalk.

"Arthur?"

"What is it?" he snaps at Francis, cracking his eyes open. "I'm trying to imagine I'm in paradise for at least five minutes. Is that too much to ask?"

Francis bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to smile. "You don't have to imagine it for much longer."

"Don't tell me what I can and cannot fantasize about."

"That's not what I meant," Francis sighs. "I'm not trying to pick an argument with you, I'm just trying to tell you that I made a reservation for us to spend four nights in Cancún."

"You did _what_? I must be misunderstanding you because the Francis I know is a homebody and refuses to leave the country unless it's for a trip to Paris."

"You're not misunderstanding me. I'm doing this for you. I thought you'd be a little more grateful."

Arthur snorts with laughter and buries his elbow into Francis's shoulder, jostling him playfully. "I do appreciate it...I just don't know how to feel human emotions and can only respond with feigned bitterness and nonchalance."

"I figured that was the case, but it's nice to hear you admit it. We leave in two days."

"Good, that gives me enough time to plan what I need to bring."

"Just don't bring the entire hospital with you this time," Francis begs.

"You say that now, but when you jam your finger in a door or Alfred's blood sugar spikes, you'll be happy I came prepared."

"I'm fairly sure they have hospitals in Mexico, _mon cher_."

"Hospitals that may not be fully-equipped," Arthur notes, and no more than ten seconds after he says that he hears a distraught voice calling him.

"Dad! Matthew scraped his hand!" Alfred shouts over the noise of the other children and their parents.

Arthur sighs and stands up, knees cracking. "I think I've demonstrated my point."

Seventy-two hours later, Arthur finally sees his dream become a reality. His weight sinks into the white coral sand of _Playa Delfines_ , and the gentle rays of sunshine seem to suck the tired bags out from underneath his eyes almost as soon as he gets comfortable. He may have had one too many margaritas, but that's all right—Francis is in charge of the boys for now. The seafoam of the shimmering water almost reaches his toes but not quite, and he has rolled up a towel to cushion his head with.

Francis is helping the boys build a sand castle fortress a short distance away, and he can hear their bubbles of laughter rising up and lifting the sky, and Arthur can't remember the last time he felt this exquisite.

He lies very, very still and thinks about absolutely nothing aside from his slow breathing. He doesn't budge for a full hour, and once the hour is up, he lets himself sit up and decides he's actually rather bored. Things are too perfect here for comfort, and he didn't think such a thing could be possible.

"Is there a doctor here?" someone shouts in English from the lifeguard post—sounds like an American tourist.

 _No, there isn't_ , Arthur thinks to himself, slamming his eyes shut again. He lets a full minute pass before he groans and gets up from the wonderful sand. He shouldn't have complained about the dullness. The universe is punishing him now for being churlish. He looks over toward Francis to let him know he's going off to help, but his husband doesn't need any explanation—he already knows where Arthur is going the moment he sees him stand up.

"It's my mother, I think she's overheated," the woman who had called for help tells him when he arrives on the scene.

He takes one look at the elderly woman sitting beneath a nearby beach umbrella and confirms that she's suffering from heatstroke. He helps the woman back to the hotel, where the air conditioning is running at full capacity. After drinking some cold water and sitting down indoors, she's just fine, and, luckily enough, it seems the hotel has a physician of their own, and so Arthur leaves her in their care and has himself another margarita before going back down to the shore.

"Everything okay?" Francis asks him upon his return.

"Yes," he assures before catching his husband in a hug from behind. "From now on, if someone asks, I'm _not_ a doctor. I'm on vacation."

"Understood," Francis chuckles, and they exchange a quick kiss while the boys cheekily shout "gross!" and "get a room!" at them.

Well, this isn't _exactly_ paradise, but that's okay.

"Arthur?"

"Hmm?"

"Tomorrow, I get to be the one to relish in the margaritas," Francis says.

"Deal."


End file.
